That’s a lucky lady awaiting him at home, that’s all I can say. I bet she’s prepared some dinner, got a big smile on her face, and probably has no idea her husband digs for nasal gold on public transportation.

Wait, I bet she knows.

Maybe she just doesn’t care.

Maybe that’s what marriage is. Not caring if your partner pokes around in various orifices in public, provided the holes in question are on their own body and not somebody else’s….

I wonder if he does that in bed. Laying there next to her, flicking his crusty friends off the side. Inevitably, they pile up in the carpet, a carnage of days past. She lies there, next to this, engrossed in episodes of reality tv.

She’s probably not innocent in this either. Any woman who lets her husband think that Tom Clancy can hide his booger fest 2012 probably has quite a few questionable habits lurking on her end of the dining table.

Maybe they do it together. Maybe they were having problems, nearing divorce, and they decided to hit up counseling. Maybe the counselor suggested team-building activities. Sitting up late one night, they got to talking. Ideas flowing, their interest in finding an activity they could share sparked something they’d thought lost.

Yea, I bet they discovered picking their noses together. A secret revolting ritual no one else understands. Maybe he’s going to go home and announce he managed to pull one over on the blonde girl sitting across from him on the train.

He’ll proudly tell the love of his life that the mystery girl across from him had no idea what he was up to. Working like a spy, he managed to unhook the little devil from the depths of his nose from behind Clancy.

A regular 007.

She’ll tell him she got a good one in the cereal aisle of the grocery store. Oh the stories they’ll share, this married couple.

I guess I’ll just let him keep thinking he’s pulling this off. If it’s for love, after all, why bother interrupting. Not to mention I can’t identify a bonus to announcing to someone that you’re aware of their activities. It’s not like I’m the booger police after all.

Now, if he was free-farting, I might have a problem. God help the couple that does that on public transportation for the sanctity of marriage.

Last week a stranger’s naked testicle came alarming close to my face and I found myself thinking:

‘Is this really worth it Menace?’

But then I reminded myself of Jennifer Aniston, and why I started this in the first place.

Allow me to elaborate.

I think we can all agree-that body is incredible

A normal person may stumble across this advertisement and think to themselves:

1. She’s hot

2. I’m thirsty

3. She’s hot

But what do I think when I stumble across this?

1. She’s hot

2. I could look like that (seriously?!)

3. Yoga. Yes, I should take a yoga course. No wait, I should TEACH yoga. But first I should take a course. Or maybe a few. Or maybe try out the various different kinds of yoga and then I will look like that and people will pay me to stretch about and teach my moves so they too can look like this.

4. I need to buy a book on yoga.

So it was in late January that I set out to the bookstore. Fifteen minutes later I was reading a novel written by a woman from Seattle who fell in love with yoga. Approximately two hours after that, I had located a hot yoga studio down the block from the apartment.

I’m fairly certain that a normal person who stumbles into a hot yoga studio would not agree to sign up for something called the 30 day challenge in which one agrees to complete 30 courses within 30 days.

But by now I’m sure you know how normal I am when it comes to grand ideas.

So without hesitation, I agreed to complete the challenge.

In order to really understand my genius in this decision, let me explain hot (bikram) yoga to you.

90 minutes of Hatha yoga stretches conducted with strangers in a room that is heated to 104 degrees F.

They really aren’t kidding about the heat.

Also, there are a lot of rules. These include sobriety, coming in hydrated, and staying inside the room for the full 90 minutes.

To recap, I pledged my allegiance in the basement of a Soho studio to maintain the willpower to remain sober, H2O soaked, and dedicated.

For 30 days.

Twenty minutes later I found myself lying half-naked on a mat in an ungodly hot room awaiting my first session.

Two minutes into it I looked like this:

Yes, sweat actually drips of one in this fashion during a session

I’m blue here to emphasize how incredibly soaked I was during the first breathing exercise.

Basically I’ve been blue for the past 30 days.

Against all odds, I completed the challenge.

I got used to the heat. I did not get used to some of the outfits chosen by my peers.

Hence, the naked testicle. Uncomfortably close to my mat. Granted, it being in the room at all is uncomfortable.

But come on man, no one needs to see that.

Rogue genetalia aside, I’m hooked.

Though I now want to study other forms.

Preferably one in which I appear graceful, stoic, and stealth. While practicing bikram yoga this red-tomato wet girl with horrendous hair kept reflecting back to me in the front mirror.

I assume it was faulty.

The mirror, not the girl.

Regardless readers, this is the latest in my serious of ‘Greatest Ideas Ever’.

Today a British dentist made me wear a pair of sunglasses while he filled in my cavity.

Evidently this is common in England. When I asked, I was informed it was to protect my eyeballs from any instruments that may ‘accidentally’ fall into my face.

This inspired confidence, I assure you. I lay in the chair, donned the shades, kicked my Chucks, and waited for the good gentlemen to explain the situation occuring inside my tooth.

It was huge.

The cavity, not the chair.

Well, I suppose the chair was pretty big too but I meant to focus on the cavity here. Though you’ll never hear me question why dentist chairs aren’t used in formal dining venues. That big mirror and light are a tad distracting.

As I sat in the chair, sunglasses covering my eyes I thought of three things:

1. Sunglasses? Really?

2. why are these not RayBans?

and

3. why have I ignored my blog for so long?

Then I remembered that my last post was a Christmas poem and that I have become the blogosphere’s equivilant of a catlady who keeps her tree until June.

I’ve never claimed to be cool, but I think we can all agree-the wreath and lights must come down.

Standing there with what looks like a strainer woven with pipe cleaners on her head, she puts her hands on her hips and clears her throat until I acknowledge her presence.

As if I’m not busy enough sorting out current self. I’m expected to entertain future Ryan just because she falls in love with a mad-scientist sometime around 2019 and steals his time machine after she finds him in bed with her tailor?

Sigh.

She never has anything positive to say. Just a whole lotta judgement about what 29 year old Zilla is doing with her life. Well you know what? We can’t all be mad-scientist muses. It’s a select group lady, and clearly; I’m not there yet.

The first time she showed up she was 84 year old me. She got all offended that I couldn’t recognize her. Also, she smelled like Fritos so it’s good to know that they serve those in whichever asylum becomes my home in 2064.

Today was 53 year old Ryan. Rocking stilettos and massive jewellery. I couldn’t get her to tell me how she came to own such lovely possessions, which was annoying. She smelled good though, so the descent into bathing in corn-chips clearly doesn’t happen until much, much later.

She told me to keep writing and to be more responsible. I raised my eyebrow at her on the latter point, but she pretended like she didn’t notice.

No one wearing kitchen supplies as a helmet has the right to lecture me on responsibility.

She wouldn’t tell me winning lottery numbers (claims she wouldn’t remember them even if she tried-of all things, I find this most believable). She wouldn’t tell me if she has children or if they drive her crazy. Though the long sigh and nod of exhaustion indicate a daughter capable of my own antics in my future.

She laughs menacingly when I ask her how many times she’s been married.

Which of course I find comforting.

The only thing she’ll tell me is to keep writing.

Seems to have done her some good. Her sense of humor still dominates her personality. She deleted the first draft of this post. Her expression while doing so indicated she thought that was downright hysterical and thus merited a victory dance.

53 year old Ryan dances no better than her younger version.

Then she popped out of the air while giggling. The last I heard was a shout that sounded like:

‘stock up on tight pants in 2011. You’re gonna need them!!”

So it’s really not my fault that I went shopping this afternoon.

Was just taking the advice of someone older, wiser, and more sophisticated.

I’m pretty sure that’s a universal law. Just like gravity and (evidently down the road) time travel.

I knew things were getting bad when I mistook my reflection for Jane Fonda before leaving the apartment last night. I thought, ‘no matter Ry, this is part of the character. Part of the girl named Rachel you’ve decided to portray to anyone who approaches you tonight’.

This, evidently, is my idea of a good time.

Rachel, the aspiring actress/waitress who couldn’t wait to ‘understand’ British culture. Rachel of the no IQ. Rachel, the blonde girl with a propensity for hair twirling, loud giggling, and repeatedly asking: “wait, what does that mean?”. Rachel, traveling Europe with her oldest and longest friend.

Kayti the Starbucks barista. Kayti with the chip on her shoulder. Kayti the indy girl full of Ani references and eye-rolling. Kayti, Miss too-cool-for-school. Kayti from Boston, traveling with her oldest friend-despite said friend’s irritating qualities.

She looked like a rock chick.

Dark, mysterious, sexy.

I looked like an 80s escort.

Pasty, curvy, moronic.

Seriously, I even had leg warmers.

Rachel's accessory of choice.

Granted, I had voluntarily clad myself in 80’s attire for the evening, so it’s not like there’s anyone else to blame here.

Blasting Pump up the Jam (full with video-courtesy of youtube), she and I took our time getting ready. Hair, make-up, and jewellery choices were all discussed at length.

When we got it perfect, it was time to go.

Bellies full of sandwiches, make-up piled on faces, Kayti and I headed off to Camden town with a mission.

I desperately wanted to make a man wake up the following morning and say to himself:

“Dear holy God, I think that was the dumbest girl on the planet. Cardboard brains. How in the name of Manchester United was I able to stand the conversation?”

I vowed not to break character. No sarcasm would pass through my thick lipstick. No sir.

Man_Shopper wanted to research how differently men would react to her if she were someone else. She has a dating blog, so this was a prime opportunity to play a different part.

I didn’t have a cool excuse. I just love to play.

So off we went.

It never once occurred to me that no one would approach us. My narcissim is too great for such a thought to enter my brain.

But yet…

Sadly….

That is what happened.

Operation Hot Sister was an EPIC FAILURE BECAUSE NO MAN APPROACHED US, LOOKED AT US, OR DID SO MUCH AS NOD IN OUR DIRECTION. ALL-CAPS USE TO EMPHASIZE THE HUMILIATION OF REALIZING ONE HAS LOST ONES MOJO.

Gone.

Finito.

No characters. No conversation. No free drinks. No eye-flirting. No. Anything.

Just the two of us idiots, tequila shots, and late-night sandwiches.

The longest conversation we had with any man was at Subway when we ordered foot-longs to devour our sorrows.

So that’s it.

Ladies and gentlemen, we no longer turn heads.

I’m sure there’s an argument for karma somewhere in all of this nonsense. Just as soon as my ego recovers, it’ll warrant further investigation.